


put your head on my shoulder

by wayfared



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Marching Band, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, No Smut, Pining, harry has a bit of social anxiety, i actually don't know what to tag??, idk if it's like pure fluff but i know it's pure not smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:20:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1916001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wayfared/pseuds/wayfared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niall gives Harry until the end of marching season to either a) make a move on Louis Tomlinson or b) get the fuck over him. Either is easier said than done. Basically, your High School AU with a drum beat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	put your head on my shoulder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> i've wanted to write a marching band au for a while now, and when i received this prompt i was SUPER stoked. this was truly fun to plan out and write, so THANK YOU for the prompt, and i really hope it's up to par and you enjoy it!!  
> that aside, i literally knew like two things about marching band, so i'd like to pour my love for my research partner. thank you!!! without you this fic would not be the same. also major thanks to my beta, i love you and my life would not be the same without you <3 lastly, the title is from family friend by the vaccines, although the actual lyrics have little relation to the fic. enjoy!!

Harry has always liked the way wet grass tickled at the ankles of his feet. Well, maybe he truly doesn't care, but when your hamstrings are cramping and there's sweat rolling down your temples at 6:30 in the morning, you learn to love the little things.

At least, that's what he tells himself on a foggy Monday morning, trying to sync the pounding of his feet with the thwack of the drumstick on the tenor drum resting against his hips. He glances over to Niall, the blonde somewhere on his left, banging away on his bass drum. For his mediocre size, he does a swell job of handling his “baby, Harry, the one and only for me”. To his right, Aiden, the other tenor drum, is even more offbeat than he is, and Harry can already imagine his squinting eyes and chewed lip as he fumbles over the rhythms. 

Harry never believed in the phrase “blood, sweat, and tears” before marching band, but ever since Niall quite literally forced him to scrawl his name and consequently his life away on the sign up sheet at the end of the eighth grade – Niall would argue this point; Harry has never had any life to speak of - there was no turning back. Even the blood part – he missed the drum completely once in his sleepy morning stupor freshman year and grazed his palm on a sharp part of the instrument, and the skin beaded scarlet the rest of the day. Harry vows that was a low point for marching band, and it was all uphill from there.

Sweeping his gaze across the crowd, Harry takes in the different members of marching band. Coach Cowell likes to refer to them as less of a marching band and more of a family, and that might be the case for most people, but if outcasts within a family are a thing, then Harry is definitely a part of that crowd. He can spot Jesy and Jade amongst the flute section, their silver instruments glinting off the rays of the rising sun. Nick Grimshaw towers at the front, his hastily done quiff falling apart with every rough down beat. Harry's eyes drift on, catching sight of Liam Payne's enormous tuba, Ben Winston's sad mellophone, and – Louis Tomlinson. 

He's the most noticeable, as always, rocking his trumpet to the beat and jamming his fingers onto the valves. Harry's always liked the way Louis plays, just within the margin of appropriate performance behavior, just outside of crooning with the sound of his instrument and transforming into on of those jazz legends that Cowell is always raving about. Well, he adores everything about Louis, but this is one of the best. He's wearing his practice clothes, which he more often than not intends to just wear only to practice and then never changes out of, a pair of low slung sweatpants and a black shirt with the sleeves hacked off. Harry wishes he would wear less ill-fitting clothing at seven in the morning, as it's hard to stay on beat when staring at something like Louis Tomlinson in sweatpants. Harry, and more so Niall, also wishes that he were less of a creep. 

He keeps staring, of course he does, because this is routine. They haven't blocked this part of the show yet, and everyone is marching in a stand still, so he's got a perfectly clear view of the majestic being three yards in front of him, wiggling to amuse the brass player stationed next to him. Harry sighs into the morning air, desperately trying to stay on track with the music. If Louis could just not exist, that would be cool. 

The song nears to the end, inching towards the climax. Cowell is at the side of the field, distracted by someone probably important, and Louis takes it as permission to completely break out of position and turn to the brass player – Ed, was it? - and blare his horn into his ear. Ed tries to pay him no attention, marching a bit to the left and keeping a straight face. Louis' having none of it, twisting further in his attempt to break Ed, crescendo-ing with the rise of the song. And then, his eyes shift and he peruses the band to see if anyone is paying attention to his tomfoolery like he wants them to, and for a very brief moment, Louis catches Harry's longing stare. 

Harry's eyes widen and he fumbles, missing the next beat. Louis notices, throwing a wink before leaving his eyes and focusing back on Ed. But not before he witnesses Harry lose control of his drumstick as it flies from his sweaty hand and hit the back heel of drummer in front. 

Harry pales. Shit, fuck, of course he would do something so embarrassing, oh my god, Niall is going to have his ass. The drummer swivels around, shooting Harry a death glare while he mouths a “Sorry!”. He stoops carefully to swipe the offending drumstick from the grass and straightens fast enough to catch the tail end of Louis' laughing face, crinkling eyes and everything. A blush rushes up his neck, and it's a moment before Harry can assume the rhythm, fighting the embarrassment writhing in his gut.

It's only thanks to the high lord above that the song stops moments after that, everyone's feet stomping one last time before the football field is overtaken by some sort of glaring silence, only the ringing of the last note and the rustle of the wind filling everyone's ears. Harry chances a glance to see Louis back in position, and lets out a shaky breath.

Nick breaks only moments before Coach Cowell's voice booms over the field. 

“Alright, kids!” he shouts, calling attention. “Early day today. We're blocking the rest of the score this week, or whatever we can, and then running it nonstop! Get water, and get out of here!” The entire band lets out a collective sigh of relief and makes a hasty break for the comforts of modern air conditioning. Harry trails after Niall, watching the backs of his sneakers as they cross the back parking lot and enter the hallway that leads to the band room.

It's only when they enter the percussion room that Niall lets out a barking laugh and points a finger at Harry's face.

“Thanks, bro,” Harry returns icily, gingerly lifting the tenor drum from his shoulders. Niall's shoulders only tremble.

“Fuck, dude, that was fucking hilarious. That tops the list,” Niall says, and Harry is suddenly thankful no one else is in the room yet. 

“Shut up,” Harry groans, resting his forehead on the locker. “I'm such a fuck up.”

“You're not a fuck up. Some things just fuck you up,” Niall reasons, taking a swig from his water bottle. 

“Don't be so wise. That counteracts the stereotype of Irishman.”

“Eh, I was born in America. My parents are way too proud. Anyway, we were talking about something else?”

Harry lets out a deep, pained sigh. “There's just something about boys in sweatpants.”

“Correction,” Niall replied, leaning with Harry against the lockers. “There's something about Louis in sweatpants.” 

Harry groans again. 

“You know, it's been like, two years, right?” Harry nods sullenly. “You've gotta do something about it. Either get it or forget it.”

“I can't just _do that,_ Niall. No matter how much I love you. I can't comply to that.”

The blonde turns to face Harry. His old rehearsal shirt still sports massive pit stains, and he's got a look of determination on his face. “Two years is long enough, Harry.”

“Technically, a year and a quarter. You're off,” Harry replies weakly. 

“Still fucking longer than any crush I've ever had. You know what? We're making an agreement.” Harry raises an eyebrow. “I've spent too much time listening to you being a sap about this guy. You've gotta make a move.” 

“No! Are you crazy?” Harry cries, pushing off the lockers. Pit members and the like start trickling in, and Harry gives the drummer he hit earlier a nervous smile. He quiets when he starts again. “Oh my god, I can't just do that. You have literally no idea how much I cannot do that.”

Niall shakes his head. “I'm not having it. Not this time, bro. You're gonna either take him out on a fucking date, or getting the fuck over him.”

“No, Niall, oh my god,” he pleads, trapping his head between his hands. Panic swells in the pit of his stomach.“I can't. You of all people should know I can't.”

“I give you until the end of marching season. If you can bag Louis Tomlinson by the final competition, I won't coerce you into anything else ever again.”

“But I won't, that's not even a possibility-”

“And if you can't, I will personally buy you two months worth of Ben and Jerry's.”

Harry opens his mouth to fire off pleading statement after pleading statement when the school bell rings, crowding the small room. Niall cocks him a pleased grin.

“It's decided. You gotta get your man, Styles.” 

Harry can't even force a squeak out as Niall slings his backpack over his shoulder and saunters out of the room. Letting out a single shaky breath, he allows himself one temple rub before hauling his backpack off the tiled floor. He's gotta catch up with Niall and plead it off, because once the kid has his mind set on ideas like this, it only takes fifteen minutes to latch onto it and never let go. And Harry cannot possibly, under any circumstances, actually accomplish anything in the nature of _romance_ , much less _romance_ and _Louis Tomlinson._ You would suspect that Niall of all people would know this already. 

He's only gone two steps from his place on the lockers before another pit member squeezes into the room, and before Harry can backtrack, the two collide. Harry shuts his eyes, freezing out of instinct, only to hear a familiar bubbly laugh hit his eardrums. His eyes fly open to find Louis Tomlinson staring at him, those fucking crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Not to mention his bare chest, half dressed and clearly not giving a shit. Harry spies the band shirt wrapped in his fist, back to the chest in front of him, and then the raised eyebrow in front of him. 

“Sorry, hi,” he chokes out, swallowing around his dry throat. 

“Alright, man,” Louis grins, definitely noticing his discomfort and definitely not doing anything about it. Louis moves away from the doorway, motioning some sort of “ladies first” or “Harry's first” gesture. If at all possible, Harry's cheeks burn brighter, and he reaches up to adjust his polo collar as he nods and shuffles out, desperately willing his gravity inclined body to, just this one time, not trip and cause the second coming of Jesus Christ. He glances back once to see Louis strolling across the room towards Aiden, who was obviously waiting for him. Of course. 

 

 

According to Niall, he's wicked cool, because the only other sophomore that owns a car is that one football player that went from freshman football straight to varsity in one whirlwind week for the team, and since that kid is way awesome, Niall is also on his level.

This doesn't factor in how shitty Niall's car is. Its red paint is more rust than the cardinal red Niall claims it once was, the windows have a roll up mechanism common before A.D. times, and the back bumper dropped off on Highway 91 quite some time ago. Niall covers up the fact that the drivers side window doesn't roll up all the way by hanging his arm out of like a middle aged dad, and Harry's lost more than a few Cheetos to the monster of a backseat, where no one dare look lest it awakens from its slumber to terrify the helpless citizens of Monroe County. Still, Niall loves and cherishes the piece of scrap metal like a first born, and insists on driving Harry without gas pay every day to and from school and rehearsals, no matter how water damaged the leather seats become. 

“So,” Niall says, leaning his head against the backseat and swaying his arm where it rests against the outside the window. The afternoon sun beats down on the car, bathing Harry's body in a certain warmth only attainable through the windshield of the front seat. “We need a plan.”

Harry sighs exasperatedly. “I told you, I'm not becoming the guinea pig of your high school romantic endeavors.”

“This is not for my benefit, Styles. You've been moping about this guy you don't even talk to ever since freshman band camp, and it has got to stop, one way or another.” Clearly, Harry did not reach the fifteen minute deadline for final pleas. “So we need a plan.”

“Please, I am begging you. Can we just forget about my crush on Louis Tomlinson.”

Niall purses his lips, trying to maneuver out of the high school student parking lot. “Not after all those two am text messages about his deep cerulean eyes and gorgeous, flippy hair.”

“Oh my god, Niall, you do not understand. I literally can't. I physically am unable to do anything about it. It's not me.”

Niall ignores him, barreling forward with ideas for whatever plan he is concocting in that strange head of his. “We have to go in small increments, since apparently your scared rabbit ass can't even bump into the guy when he's shirtless and form a coherent sentence.”

“If you bumped into Olly Murs shirtless, would you be able to hold a pleasant conversation?” Harry accuses. 

“Point taken. Yet, Louis is only a loser in a high school marching band, not a celebrity on the walls of my bedroom. Your level of nerves around him is way too fucking high.”

Harry fidgets nervously. “It's a thing, Niall. Mom wants to diagnose me, or something.”

“Bullshit,” Niall snorts. “You have the same mind as I do. You just need to get over a few extra hurdles before you can suck his dick.”

“Niall!”

“What, it's true. Such is the natural course of human life.” He shrugs nonchalantly as the car takes a left in his neighborhood. “So, plan.”

“Niall, no.” 

The tires grind to a halt in Niall's driveway. Niall sets the car in park and twists in his seat to fully face his best friend. “You've got two choices, bro. Either a) make a move on Louis Tomlinson, or b) get the fuck over him. And let's face it, neither is going to come easy. So, which is it?”

Harry whimpers. Niall grins evilly.

“That's what I thought. Now come on, let's get you some Tomlinson dick.”

 

 

Apparently, Niall's idea of a “small increment” is diving headfirst into Louis' table at lunch. Not literally, but Harry can't promise that there wasn't a large part of Niall's mind devoted to the very idea.

As the pair exit the pizza line of the crowded cafeteria, Harry heads off to their usual table at the back, unoccupied by anyone but them and the occasional band member. Niall grabs his arm, carefully balancing his three different pepperoni pizza slices on the other hand. 

“What are you-”

“Where does Louis sit,” he demands, squinting eyes sweeping the sea of pimply high school students. 

“I don't know, I'm not that creepy. Why?”

“You're totally that creepy. Oh! He's over there, with almost an entirely empty table. Perfect.”

Harry realizes. “Niall, fuck no. I'm not gonna – don't pull, that hurts – sit at his table, that's –  _ ow –  _ so fucking weird! I've barely had a conversation with the guy, you can't just force me to be next to him for an entire forty five minutes.”

“If we were to go by your snail-inspired romantic skills, you would have your first hand holding by college graduation. Please, Haz, act natural.”

Naturally, Harry is as pale as white-out by the time Niall stops at the foot of the lunch table, still clutching a ghostly Harry by the arm. 

“Sup!” Niall says cheerily at Louis and a friend Harry doesn't often see him with. Judging by the black, baggy clothes with matching messy jet hair and the obvious fact that he is not in marching band, Harry would say that he is not a member of marching band. 

Harry doesn't say anything, the roof of his mouth magically transformed into industrial grade sand paper. He hopes to god Niall will say enough for the both of them. 

“Hello,” Louis replies, amusement glinting in his eyes as he seems to track Harry's movements. The emo-esque dude across from Louis nods in greeting. 

“Our table got boring, so I thought we'd come sit here. That's okay, right?” Niall inquires. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Louis nods. “Not sure if we're much better company, but sure.”

“There's no way you can be worse than thin air,” Niall jokes. Harry wishes he were as suave and slick as Niall in this moment. Harry wishes a lot of things, like how a vicious rapid-sink quicksand attack would be ideal. Anything but Niall practically throwing him down in the seat next to Louis and moving around the table to plop down next to the emo guy. Harry glances quickly at Louis and catches his warm, welcoming smile, and blushes before training his eyes on the loose thread on the hem of his polo. Today, it's firetruck red, although Harry yearns for it to be the color of that quicksand, or the pattern of the cafeteria title. Maybe Harry could pull off a marine camouflage act. 

“Hi,” Louis says again, and this time it's personally to Harry. 

Harry looks up again. “Hey,” he squeaks out, and he doesn't understand why Louis' smile only grows bigger. Does he have something in his teeth? Oh god, he probably has spinach in his teeth. He's never had spinach in all of his sixteen years, but he definitely, completely has spinach wedged between his two front teeth. 

“So,” Niall starts, and Harry snaps around towards his voice, “How are you guys?” 

“Good, yeah,” Louis answers, taking a bite of his pizza – cheese, in case you were wondering. Emo Guy nods again from his side of the table. “This is Zayn, by the way. He hates band.”

Niall barks out a hearty laugh mid bite. “Nice to meet you, bro. Both Harry and I are in band.”

“Zayn likes to think he's cool by not talking to people he doesn't really know. But really, he's just a bitter, wanna-be goth who writes poetry on the stalls.”

“Not true,” Zayn bites back, and it's the first time either hear his voice. Niall just stares at him.

“You do poetry?” he asks.

A small smile flashes before disappearing back into the former mysterious, carefully blank expression. “I dabble a bit, yeah. Mostly just art. Like, watercolor and graffiti and stuff.”

“That's fucking sick, bro. Wish I could do creative shit,” Niall croons, taking a massive bite out of one of his pizza slices. 

“I mean, it's not that good,” Zayn shrugs.

“Don't put yourself down, Zayn. It's awesome. How many times do I have to say that?”

He shrugs again, pushes around the teriyaki chicken on his plastic plate. 

“I believe it. You should show me sometime.” Niall flashes a grin, but Zayn just pitches an eyebrow. Not everyone's used to how forward and social Niall Horan is, especially when he's usually seen in the company of the most socially inept wall flower to ever grace Jefferson High School.

Speaking of, Harry is not speaking. He keeps his eyes trained on his fidgeting hands, not even daring to take the stupid lunch his mom insists on packing out of his backpack. God, why can't she just let him eat school food. And for once, Niall's too fucking busy to notice Harry floundering in his silence, acutely aware of Louis not inches from his side, contentedly chewing on his pizza. 

Harry's phone vibrates. He glances up to find Niall boring holes into his hair, and urgently tapped on his own phone set on the table.

_U NEVER TOLD ME THAT LOUIS HAD A CUTE FRIEND_

Harry suppresses the urge to burst out laughing.

_Your not even gay how is this a problem???_

The next text is only a string of crying emojis, followed by a single knife emoji. Niall dramatically stuffs his phone into his back pocket and turns to Zayn, and now Harry can see the wheels wheezing inside his head, attempting to discern why this guy isn't voluntarily talking to him. Harry could just about laugh in his face right now, but he won't, because they're best friends and Louis Tomlinson is sitting right next to him. 

Which brings him back to the main problem. Louis is still quiet next to him, and slowly becoming more uncomfortable with each passing second of being ignored. 

“So, Harry,” someone grunts at the table, and Harry looks up again expecting it to be Niall, as it usually is, but the culprit is Louis, watching him expectantly like he's been at it for several minutes. Harry can already feel his cheeks sparking with embers. 

“Yeah?” Harry replies, and it's a major accomplishment that the word slips out with no hitches.

“How are you, then?”

How are you? How are you. How the hell do you answer that? Why does he keep staring? Why is there a piece of stray cheese on the corner of Louis' lip?

“Uh, good. Good,” he answers, nodding on this side of frantically. More moments of silence cement themselves between them. Louis seems to be searching for more things to say, whilst Harry is searching for more ways to disappear.

“How's drumline?” Louis inquires. This conversation is so south it's made it to Chihuahua, Mexico, Harry thinks.

“Good, yeah. Drum-y.” God, why isn't there a gun taped under the table like in those action movies. 

Louis chuckles, teeth flashing like a jock in a 90's cheerleader movie. Wait, he laughed? This is a nice development. He opens his mouth, ready to probably counter with something cheeky, when two pairs of footsteps approach the lunch table. Louis looks surprised to find himself interrupted by Liam Payne, the tuba, and Eleanor Something, a member of the color guard. They flop down, Liam on the other side of Zayn, and Eleanor beside Louis. 

“Hey, guys,” Liam cheers, moments before he digs into probably the most massive hamburger the cafeteria has ever served. 

“Hi,” Louis greets, somehow less enthusiastic than whatever he was going to say before. Harry keeps his mouth shut, only nodding. Eleanor gives him a strange look, but it's quickly wiped off by Zayn stealing one of her fries and Niall barreling into an unnecessarily long greeting. 

“You've never sat here before, Niall,” Liam comments, because of course he's friends with Niall. 

“Nah, we sat over on the other side. Just thought we'd change it up a bit today, didn't we, Harry?”

“Yeah, sure,” Harry says on instinct. It's a special skill to inject a phrase from a select list of nonsensical phrases that don't require any sort of answer whenever Niall tries to pull him into a conversation. Magically, after four years, he hasn't really noticed this technique. Most likely, he just chooses to ignore it. 

The rest of lunch goes unspectacularly. Eleanor replaces Harry in the conversation, and Liam blocks him out of it entirely with his sweet voice and attractive face, effectively pulling any attention that might have been on on Harry towards him. He doesn't mind, though. Liam is nice to listen to, and Eleanor blabbers enough to fill whatever gaps left in the conversation. Louis listens intently, Niall is practically the driving force of whatever they're discussing, and Zayn puts in his obligatory nods. If Louis glances at Harry worriedly throughout lunch, neither of them mention it, and Harry tries to ignore it altogether.

 

 

“Niall, how much time of this godforsaken rehearsal is left?” Harry whines, wiping beads of sweat away where they trickle down his forehead. 

“An hour, bro,” Niall answers, dropping his mallets on the ground before Harry. “I'm fucking dying.”

“Says you to the guy who forgot his water bottle in the car. I'm so stupid.” Harry feels dead on 

his feet, no exaggeration involved. Coach Cowell called a five minute break when a flute player marched headfirst into one of the tubas. Clearly, the Wednesday afternoon rehearsal was going spiffy.

“You can ask to go back and get it,” Niall suggests from his place on the football field, smothering his face in the sunset bathed grass. 

“What if he gets mad? I mean, Jesy already passed out on Liam, and he made Nick run laps even though he's a drum major. I don't wanna, like, seem insensitive and stuff.”

“Only you, Harry, would care about that. Just ask.”

“I'll live. He's practically throttling that poor saxophone over there.” His body begs to differ as Death Valley takes up residence on the roof of his mouth. Harry's the kind of kid that likes to stay hydrated twenty-four seven, carrying at least two water bottles in the bottom of his backpack. Two hours of marching without even a drop of water is the equivalent of a modern apocalypse. 

“Do you need water?” a voice asks, and Harry whirls around to find Louis behind him, a water bottle clutched in his fist. 

“Uh, yeah, that would be great,” Harry stuttered. Louis holds out the water bottle, and it takes Harry a moment to register that he must take the offering and express gratitude for Louis' sudden kindness. “Thanks.” 

“No problem,” he grins, and plops down on the ground beside Niall. Harry sits gingerly next to them and unscrews the cap of the bottle. Bringing the bottle up to hover above his lips, Harry tips it forward. Only a couple drops spill out, so he tips it more, not anticipating the avalanche of water that pours out. He chokes on the water that makes it into his mouth, hastily bringing the bottle back down and covering his face. Through watery eyes, he can make out Louis cackling, eyes glistening, and Harry looks down to see the cascade of water that covers his shirt.

“Shit, sorry,” he groans, shoving the bottle back to Louis. 

“Now that is what I like to call hydrated,” Louis jokes, taking his own swig. Harry doesn't track his movements. “Like your shirt.”

“Uh, thanks? My mom bought it for me.” Louis giggles again, and Harry has to close his eyes because _why does he say things._ It's a good thing Louis doesn't seem to mind. 

“Wouldn't suspect otherwise,” he says, flashing a grin. “Why is Cowell being so shitty?”

“Nick Grimshaw thinks he's the shit, pit is actually shit, and the flutes are incompetent when it comes to retaining routines,” Niall sighs. “Like every year.”

Louis snorts. “You're telling me. Next year, when Nick's gone and off to that fancy university in Iowa that he keeps yakking on about, I'm gonna be so much fucking better than he is. I'll be legendary in this school.”

“You want to be a drum major?” Harry asks, almost surprised by his own question.

“Yeah, I think it'd be real cool,” Louis nodded, his expression this manic beam as he watches the water swirl in the bottle.

“You'd be good at it,” Harry says. One year of crushing has led him to discover that much.

“Really? You think so?” 

“Of course, you're Louis.” When Harry looks up from his fidgeting hands, Louis gives him this strange look, somewhere between hope and wistfulness.

“That means a lot,” he says softly. For a moment, there's a weighted quiet hanging between them, something Harry can't quite pinpoint.

“I think you'd be great,” Niall interjects, scattering anything that might have been floating in the air. Louis bites out a laugh, taking another sip.

“Thanks, bro.”

Cowell marches back onto the field, grumbling obscenities into the air. “Horns up!” he yells over the chatter. “Top of the show!” 

“Whatever is up his ass, I don't think it's ever gonna be able to come out,” Louis mutters. Harry lets himself laugh, and Louis sends him a wink before running into position on the other side of the field. 

 

“Hey, dude,” Louis grins as Harry slides into the seat next to him. Niall unceremoniously dumps his bag and flops down beside Zayn. It's been a two weeks, and this is routine now. Speaking is still a bit difficult, and Niall does most of it, but it's clockwork now. 

“Hi,” Harry returns, smiling shyly. “How's it?”

“Good, good,” Louis says. “Coach Cowell is killing us, though. Does he know we're only in high school, not college?”

“I think he taught college for a bit, actually,” Niall put in. “At least he doesn't treat us like kids.”

“Yeah, but it'd be cool if he wouldn't yell at Jesy for messing up a set once out of twenty times. I mean, it's a little harsh?”

“True. Jesy's sweet,” Niall shrugs, delving into his lunch. 

“When's the state thingy?” Zayn asks. As much as he proclaims he hates band, there's no getting past the fact that half of his friends have their bodily organs replaced with various brass instruments. 

“Few weeks,” Louis sighs. “There's no way we're gonna win.”

“Hey now, don't be so negative. We have a huge shot at winning. Just have to put in the effort,” Harry reassures. 

“Wise words courtesy of Harry Styles,” Louis hums. 

“Louis!” a voice calls out. Instantly, all four heads pop up, hunting for the intruder. Jogging towards them is none other than Aiden Grimshaw, messy brown hair flopping over his forehead with every step. Louis lightens up immediately, straightening in his seat as Aiden approaches the table.

“Hey!” Louis welcomes. “What's up?”

“You're in honors chemistry, right? I need help on something.”

“I have a D in that class, you know that, right?”

“Yeah, but that's better than my failing grade in a class lower. Come to the library with me?”

Louis hesitated. His gaze shifted from Harry, to Niall and Zayn, to Aiden before him, puppy dog eyes turned up to eleven. “Uh, sure, Aiden. Now?” 

“I was hoping..?”

“Sure, I guess. Is that alright with you guys?”

Niall locks eyes with Harry. He knows what he's thinking right now. _Fuck_ no, Aiden is a fucking jerk, please don't leave me for this chump. 

Before either can spring into action, Zayn nods. “Go ahead. We're cool.” Au contraire, emo wanna be, Harry would much rather be involved in a shooting than let Louis go off with Aiden, of all people. He should telepathically know that. 

“See you guys,” Louis quips. Aiden beams. Both start towards the cafeteria door, already deep in conversation about something chemistry, or whatever. Harry glares daggers into Aiden's shoulder blades, gripping the plastic fork in his hand probably more than necessary. Just before disappearing behind the cafeteria doors, Aiden turns around for just a moment, peering right at Harry. He smirks, this awful smirk, chin tilted and eyebrows raised in a challenge, and then he's gone.

Harry snaps back to face Niall. “Did you see that?”

“Huh?”

“Aiden gave me the shittiest look.”

Niall rolls his eyes. “What a fuckbag. What's his problem?”

“No idea,” Harry muses. “I haven't talked to him in months.”

“What's wrong with Aiden?” Zayn questions around his mouthful of chicken.

“He's bitter jealous of Harry ever since they started playing the same instrument in the seventh grade and Harry was better at it. Er, better at everything, really.”

“That's not true.”

“Is, too! You're Einstein when it comes to most of the shit we do. If he's got a failing grade in regular science, I don't wanna know what else he's so fucked up in.”

“Why is he still mad at me, though? It's been four years.”

“He's just an angry little flea. Two more years, and he's out of your fur forever.” 

Zayn chuckled, causing Niall to beam at his stupid joke. Lately, everything that Zayn does throws him under a bus of joyous emotions. 

“So why on earth is this kid asking Louis to come with him and then giving Harry a death glare?”

“Oh, Aiden likes to take everything Harry likes, which isn't much, but-” Harry cuts him off with an unintelligible noise. “I mean-”

“Oh, I get it.” Zayn grinned mischievously. “You like Louis?”

“No! No, no, uh,” Harry stammered, a mad blush already bombarding his cheeks. “I mean, no. Like, not like that.”

“I won't say anything. It's cute, really.”

“I promise you, it isn't anything-”

“Now that I think about it, it makes sense. How you're less shy with me. The massive heart eyes all the time.”

Harry slapped his hands onto his cheeks. “You've got it wrong,” he pleads.

“Believe me, the heart eyes are the worst,” Niall crows.

“That is so adorable. I can't believe I didn't see it before.”

Niall barks a laugh. “I thought it was clear as day. Does anyone really not notice?”

Zayn shrugs while Harry looks on helplessly. “I just thought he was like that with everyone.”

“I'm right here,” Harry cries. “Literally right here.”

“Don't worry, I won't say anything. Your secret's safe with me.” Zayn leans forward on his hands all fake business-like. 

There's a certain degree of irony, Harry thinks, that comes with discussing an obvious crush with someone when an even more obvious crush is sitting right next to them. Maybe it's the desperate need to stop thinking about this that's heightening his senses, but Harry can't just imagine the awe in Niall's eyes as he takes in the glint in Zayn's eyes. Plus the evidence of forty-something crying emoji texts sent over the past week, along with the text “ZZZAAAYNNNNN” at the bottom. Either way, Harry wishes they would stop talking about this.

“Can we just-,” Harry begs. Literally anything to get Zayn to stop talking.

“Not sure if I want to,” Zayn hums. 

Harry swears Louis' friends are harder to live with than Louis. 

 

 

Wednesday afternoon rehearsal starts with Coach Cowell stopping the show every two seconds to fix miniscule problems. It's that time of the year again, when Cowell's head is the popping lid of a steaming pot of water, and every little misstep lets out a blood curdling scream. 

Louis catches Harry's eye across the field during one of Cowell's yelling matches. A poor trombone stepped out of line, and to be fair, she's done it every single run through, but Louis' dramatic eye roll seems to agree that it's too much. Harry blushes, contemplating about how on earth even a stupid eye roll is cute. Is this going to happen with every single thing he does forever?

“Don't rehearse bad habits! Set 18, on the DM,” Cowell hollers, returning to his position next to the drum majors. Nick sticks out his tongue as the band quickly shuffles into their places. Nick raises his arms, and the set begins. Instantly, the marching band springs into action, marching left and right. Harry's feet move robotically, leading him across the field on auto-pilot. There's nothing, Harry thinks, quite like having an entire show memorized and ready to go. 

Cowell throws up a hand, yelling something indistinguishable while the noise dies down. 

“Brass! Improve your spacing!” The brass section exchanges confused glances, and Harry sees Louis motion between Ed and another player standing a bit too close. “Start where you left off,” Cowell orders, and the band is off again. 

When the clock hits eight exactly, courtesy of Niall's wristwatch, Coach Cowell slumps down on the football field and covers his face with his hands. The band pauses, still in their end positions, as Cowell breaths deeply and heaves out five massive sighs. Before hauling himself off the ground, he peers at the dead silent group over his hands. 

“I need five extra minutes,” he says. “You can put your instruments down.”

As if a trigger was pulled, the marching band simultaneously throws themselves on the ground, setting their instruments in their laps and mopping the sweat from their faces. Harry carefully removes his tenor drum from his shoulders and places it on the grass.

“Okay,” Cowell begins, pacing up and down the front of the field. “The next competition is major. From here on out, we march in the big leagues.” Cowell turns to face the band, planting his feet firmly on the ground. “It won't be easy. You guys understand why I'm working you so hard, right? Because marching band isn't a walk in the park. This is something you put your life into. It's time consuming and stress-inducing, but it's so worth it.” Twenty feet from Harry, Louis rolls his head back onto his shoulders. Harry tries to focus his attention solely on the band director. “This time of year is always hard. We've got rehearsal, football games, and competition. Especially now...” Cowell powers his way through his speech, spewing words about how difficult these next few weeks are going to be, and how much effort they have to put in, and yadayadayada. Cowell's Big Speech happens every year around this time, when he finally loses it and attempts to pull himself together through the classic motivational speech. 

Instead of being a respectful citizen and listening attentively to Coach Cowell's slow loss of mental stability, Harry lets his eyes wander back to Louis. He's looking especially cute this evening, dressed in some random underground band shirt with his sweats tucked into his socks. His brown hair is both matted and sticking out in all sorts of directions, and he's knocking his feet together like a kid. The entire combination is super adorable, and Harry urgently needs to tattoo the image on the inside of his eyelids.

“I know you can do it...” the band director's voice floats through the air. Somehow, in its harsh, uneven tone, Cowell's voice is a soothing backdrop to a game of keeping your eyes open indefinitely as to not miss a moment of the cute action. 

Harry leans forward, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. Yawning into his hand, he realizes just how fucking boring this speech is. Last year, because he was an excited little freshman, he clung to every word of it like gospel. If it were in the form of printed word, he would've dropped the bible in the trash and pored over those pages instead. 

As he watches, Louis twists in his spot, bending back to look directly at Harry. It catches him by surprise, and Harry sits stalk-straight before giving what is probably a smile in some universe to Louis. He grins back, then makes a gagging face, pretending to vomit and pointing to Cowell. Harry giggles, nodding in agreement and then miming a thumbs down. 

Something captures Louis' attention, and his eyes flick towards someone on Harry's right. Harry pouts, because _hey,_ that nonverbal conversation was their nonverbal conversation. He follows Louis' line of sight, and – oh. It's Aiden. Of course. Huffing a large breath, he reverts his eyes and tunes in again to the last of Coach Cowell's Epic Annual Marching Band Speech.

“... so I know this will be very tough for you guys. But we've made it in the past, and we can make it now. The next competition we smash it to bits, guys. I believe in you!” A few halfhearted whoops make their way across the football field. “Go pack up, and I'll meet you guys tomorrow morning!” 

On cue, the whole marching band cheers. Cowell looks hopeful, beaming for the first time in weeks, probably. Everyone clambers to their feet, stretching backs and picking up instruments. 

“What's Cowell's problem?” Niall groans, checking his watch again.

“Don't know, bro,” Harry answers sympathetically. In truth, right now, Harry doesn't give a single shit. 

They trudge their way back to the band room, pit dragging their xylophones and shit behind them. Niall looks like he's about to pass out, and Harry can hear the word _homework_ in several mutterings of fellow band members. Harry can relate.

As Harry takes a swig out of his water bottle in the percussion room, Niall beside him rubbing his eyes, a hand grabs his shoulder. Harry whips around, alarmed, but it's only Louis, his collar stained with sweat and grinning like a maniac. In the back of his mind, he wonders why this happens so unfairly much. 

“Hey!” Louis greets. Harry is acutely aware of how he has not let go of his shoulder yet. 

“Uh, hi,” Harry replies, smiling back. 

“I have a question,” Louis says, leaning his shoulder against the lockers. “Can I have your number?”

Harry's eyebrows hit his hairline. Somewhere behind him, Niall splutters into his water bottle. “Um, what did you say?” 

“I just, uh, was wondering if we could exchange numbers?” he asked again, furrowing his eyebrows. “Just for, you know, reasons.” 

“Yeah, uh, sure,” Harry stutters, nodding vigorously. 

“Your phone then?” 

“Oh, right.” He fishes his pockets for the phone and hands it to Louis, unlocked and ready. Louis does the same, and Harry marvels at the sight of his phone in his hand. The case is Spider Man themed. Both boys tap in their numbers to the opposite phone, and give it back to the other.

“Great,” Louis says, beaming. Harry can feel himself grinning stupidly, but he doesn't give a shit, he just got _Louis'_ number. “Well, see you around, then?”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry agrees. “See you around.”

Louis stays still for a second longer, just seeming to stare at Harry, which would be odd but Harry revels in it, smiling like a fool. Finally, Louis kind of does this nod thing, and ambles out the door.

“Holy shit,” Niall exclaims once they're in the clear, punching Harry in the shoulder. “You got his number!”

“As friends,” Harry amends, but that doesn't cancel the fact that yeah, he fucking did. 

“Doesn't matter. It still happened. You are one step closer to the goal, bro.”

Bubbles rise up in Harry's stomach, excitement threatening to swallow him whole. 

“This is awesome,” Niall continues, pulling Harry by the arm out of the percussion room.

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles. He's still goggling at his phone when Niall jiggles his elbow and points him in the direction of his next class. 

 

 

Honors chemistry is the only class Harry has with Louis. It's not too bad of a set up, except he sits at the front next to this guy who picks his nose when he thinks no one is looking, and Louis gets to kick his feet up in the last row, chatting with the stereotypical popular kids that roam the school. Harry tends to forget those exist, and he doesn't understand how Louis can get on so well with them. They're vapid, he pouts from his first row wobbly desk, determined not to glance back and keep his eyes trained on their teacher, Mrs. Flack, throw her hair around as she whips back and forth from the board and the students. Something about nomenclature, which sounds like a fancy term in Viking mythology. 

Halfway through class, Flack's given up on the students and passed out a worksheet, asking how to name about one hundred different compounds more than Harry is willing to put in effort for. _Name and identify the type of bond: MgCl_ _2.._ Fuck that. 

The kid beside him – Jerry? Gerry? - sniffles and raises his hand. 

“I don't understand,” he whines, like every other day, and Harry rolls his eyes and tries to focus on the worksheet. Flack begins to ramble, leaned over his desk.

Harry's phone vibrates in it's corner on the desk. He pauses, staring wide-eyed at the phone before glancing at Flack just inches away. She doesn't seem to notice, or care, so he grabs the phone. _Louis !!!!!_ the screen reads. Twisting around in his feet, he discovers Louis, his own phone pressed to his lips, raising his eyebrows at Harry. 

_Do u understand this??????_ the text reads, and Harry can't help but grin stupidly.

_B_ _arely_. The text is hasty, if only to not let Flack see. No one knows her policy on phones, but she's known to randomize her pickings and his is ripe crop. Harry scribbles magnesium chloride on the first line of the worksheet.

_what's the first one???? pretty please_

Harry chuckles before sending off a text with the answer.

_THANK U <3\. this class is so boring ): what's number 2?_

Harry checks his worksheet; it asks for CaSO4. He knows the answer, but he's not about to give every single one to Louis, no matter how pretty his eyes are.

_ It's an _ _individual worksheet, u know. Not saying!_

_pretty please????????_ It's followed by fifteen praying hands and crying emojis. Harry can't deal with it.

C _alcium sulfate_

_ UR THE BEST. _

_ Figure out the next one yourself! _

It takes twenty more questions for Louis to send another text.

_help what's number twelve_

_ Lithium carbonate. That's the last one i'm telling u _

_ ur an angel that has blessed this godforsaken earth. _

Harry's cheeks pink, and he locks the phone and resolutely scribbles in the next answer. Louis Tomlinson will not distract him from homework with such words. They were only meant in thanks for letting him cheat. He wonders why he couldn't have just asked the kids next to him.

_hey are u coming to rehearsal tonight??_

_ Yeah of course. Why? _

_ just asking... are u looking forward to the next competition?? _

_Kind of scared. Nervous about if we make state_

_ awww don't be nervous. ur awesome at ur drum thing _

Harry can't help but bite back a smile. Firmly shoving his phone to the corner of the desk, he attempts once more to concentrate on the homework. Not many problems left. 

The device remains silent until five minutes left of class. Harry already has his science tucked into his backpack, chin resting on the palm of his hand as he stares blankly at the white board.

_i know u said u weren't gonna give me any more but I don't have time for hw tonight and no one else will tell me this one ))): what's the last one????_

_ Who did you ask? _

_ Tyler but he wouldn't tell me. i have a suspicion he didn't even know _

Harry looks back at Tyler. He's the only other attractive guy in the classroom besides Louis, but he doesn't know squat and is failing half his classes. What a shame.

_At least he's cute. It's hydrogen sulfite_

After hovering over the send button for five deep breaths, he presses down before his brain can argue any more over what was, in his mind, a risky text. He doesn't talk much about what he likes to anyone besides Niall, and he's only there out of convenience, because Harry's never believed in bottling up. 

Harry sucks in a breath as he waits in anticipation for Louis' answer. The grueling seconds tick past, and a typing icon appears twice before nothing comes at all. Thirty seconds to the bell, he turns around one more time. Louis is twirling his phone in his hands, eyebrows furrowed and lip between his teeth. Harry keeps his eyes fixed on him until he glances up and catches it. For a fleeting moment, Louis' expression is a weird mixture of confusion and something Harry can't quite put his finger on, but it's gone before he can decipher it and replaced by an awkward grin. Louis shoots him a thumbs up, and Harry answers with what is probably a smile and a small nod before turning back to his phone. He contemplates it for a bit before screenshotting the conversation and sending it to Niall, accompanied by several question marks and exclamation points, just as the bell rings.

 

 

“This is serious!” Cowell shouts over the clamor of everyone's clunky band instruments. “Top of show! I'm not letting you guys go to class until we get this perfect.” A collective groan erupts from the whole group as everyone reluctantly shuffles into the starting position. Harry's already got the routine down, but he can see several people wishing to the high heavens that they could grab their dot books right now. 

Truthfully, his mind is occupied with something else, and that's the only reason Coach Cowell's yelled at him once already today. Two strikes and you're out is his competition rule, and Harry really would not like to run laps today, but when he sent Niall that screenshot two days ago, he replied with _so his number and texting not ab band???? are u guys friends now???? did we reach this far_ and he truly didn't know the answer to that. So for the last two days he's been freaking out whenever he talks to Louis, because sometimes it's clear that they're friends, and then other times Harry wonders if he's overstepping some sort of invisible boundary by even thinking that, and if he says it out loud will Louis be disgusted at him? He still hasn't breached the subject of not answering that text, not that Harry ever expected him to. It would've been nice. Niall reassured him that they're probably friends and he shouldn't flip out, although Harry's not sure if he's qualified to say that on account of the time he set his elbow in his sloppy joe listening to Zayn talk. 

Back to the present. Nick raises his arms, counts to three, and the band is off, horns blaring and flashes of the color guard's flags whipping through Harry's vision. They run through all three movements, running the gamut of every emotion Cowell could ever wish to fit within one show. Harry counts his steps, banging on his drum like no tomorrow. This show's more exciting than last year, when Cowell decided he wanted a soulful, 80's reminiscent ballad. Never again. By the time the flags go up one last time and the woodwinds let out their last high note, he's out of breath, drumsticks frozen over the drum.

The show is flawless. Even Cowell can see that. He leans against the drum major's podium, and for the first time in weeks, there's a blistering grin on his face, all the wrinkles as deep as Mariana's Trench. The band is silent as they stare in awe.

“Well done,” Cowell crows, and a collective sigh gathers over everyone. “That was incredible. And a day before a competition! I want to see it again.” And so Harry trudges to his starting position. He passes Louis on the way, who smacks him in the shoulder with his hand for no particular reason. They settle into their spots, and Nick lifts his arms once more. 

Right before he marks the first down beat, Harry sweeps his eyes across the band, searching Louis out. As is the usual these days, Louis catches on quick and grins, and Harry's stomach swarms with butterflies. Then the music starts, and Harry tears his eyes away to concentrate. 

After the run through, Cowell puts his hand up and calls for a water break, with “no funny business, just get a drink and get back on the field.” Everyone immediately drops their instruments and heads for the sides, where yards of water bottles are lined up in wait. 

Uncapping his bottle, Harry doesn't see Louis sidle up to him until it's too late. One second he's tipping the bottle back to get some much needed hydration, and the next something solid slams into him and it slips, pouring onto his shirt. 

“What the -” Harry gets cut off by a raucous laughing, and _that_ is cut off by the heavy footsteps of Coach Cowell. 

Harry only just processes that Louis bumped into him and his shirt is soaking wet by the time Cowell demands “What did I say about funny business?”

“Uh, sorry, I didn't-”

“It was my fault, Coach, I didn't know how terribly off balance Harold here is on his feet,” Louis pipes up. Cowell does not look impressed. 

“Two laps,” he orders, and stalks off.

“Wait, that's not-” 

“Do you want me to make it three?”

Louis scrunches his nose and shakes his head. He shrugs Harry an apology before taking off for the track. Harry shoots Niall a pleading look, but Niall only seems to be holding back peals of laughter behind the mouth of his water bottle. 

He catches up with Louis on the track, managing a small jog beside him. 

“Sorry, Harry,” Louis says. “You looked so innocent standing there, it was too easy.” 

Harry's never had a friend that openly admits to wanting to practically knocking him out, and then proceeding with the act. “It's alright.” 

Okay, jogging was never Harry's thing. Or, athletics and anything that falls under the category of exercise was never his thing. So really, it's not entirely alright, but there's no use arguing now.

Three quarters through the first lap, he begins wheezing. Louis laughs at his inexperienced job. Apparently, Louis' been doing soccer on the side for years now, and his laps are going just swimmingly. 

“Shit,” Harry gasps as they cross the line and start the second lap. “I haven't – run this much – since middle school.”

“That's a bit sad,” Louis grins. “Oh well. Guess I should leave you behind, seeing as it's going to take you five years.”

“No! I mean, go ahead, if you want to.”

“I was only kidding. Here, I'll be your encouragement. You can do it! Even though a snail could probably go faster than this, I believe in you!” Louis pumps his fists in the air as he runs.

“How kind,” Harry retorts, pushing himself to go just a bit farther and faster. 

“Don't be a shit, I'm being supportive.”

Fuck, okay, he cannot do this anymore. With half of the last lap left, Harry halts, hands on his knees. His lungs are two steps away from bursting, and the backs of his calves burn like a house fire with a family of five inside. For a minute, he just pants, eyes squeezed shut. He can feel Louis waiting beside him, probably looking cross.

“Sorry,” Harry says. 

“It's okay,” Louis reassures. “Get the fuck going, though.”

Harry laughs bitterly. “I feel so encouraged. I could run a marathon now, thank you.” 

“That's what friends are for!” 

He straightens up at that. Louis' giving him this lopsided smile, and his hands are shielding his face from the morning sun. He looks gorgeous, even stained in sweat and a five year old threadbare shirt.

“Hey,” Harry gulps as he takes an almost painful step forward. “Uh, we are friends, right?”

Louis pitches an eyebrow. He paces himself along Harry, who took to walking instead of going back to that blasphemous thing some call running. Harry would like to petition for it to be renamed taking a stroll through the pits of hell. No matter how fit he gets from marching, there will always be a part of him that despises physical activity and refuses, mentally and physically, to take any part of it. 

“Why wouldn't we be?” he asks, and there's that incredible, heart melting grin. “First one to the finish line gets to copy off the others chemistry homework!” Louis takes off, pounding along the dirt track, and Harry can't find it in his heart to go after him. Not because of the fact that his chest still refuses to not be gripped in a severe cramp, but because Louis looks cute as hell when he runs, hair flying and laughter bubbling after him. Harry beams after him. Friends, he thinks. Even if they never cross the line between friends and boyfriends, Harry would be entirely content with staying here. Just being friends with Louis is more than he could ever ask for. 

 

 

Regionals. Coach Cowell had given them a big speech about this one. Well, not the actual regionals competition, but the competition that would take them to regionals. And then to area, and then state. As the marching band bus rolls to a gradual stop in front of a tall faded red brick building, the front smothered by a large sign proudly exclaiming _Monroe County High School,_ Harry's stomach writhes with nerves, and he's already chewed his lip down to the stinging layer on the journey here. He clutches Niall's hand over the seat, digging little crescent moons into the pale skin. 

“Not even regionals, bro,” Niall reassures, although Harry can see right through his shit; the nails on the hand he's clutching are bitten straight down to the nub. 

“Yeah, I know, but,” Harry says, unsure of how to respond. Despite how many outbursts Niall's witnessed by now, no one, not even Niall, can really understand how deep his anxiety runs. It wouldn't be a major event without shaking and having the constant urge to find the nearest trash can and empty today's breakfast from his stomach. Oatmeal and raisins don't look pretty on the way up. Harry glances to the back of the bus, where Louis sits chatting amicably with Aiden, aimlessly locking and unlocking the clasps of his instrument case. Even fiddling with the locks, because it happens to be one of Harry's biggest pet peeves, he would probably face a nationwide competition with Beyonce and President Obama as judges for him right now. 

“We'll do good. Ready?” Niall snaps Harry out of his reverie, raising an eyebrow and pushing his tongue between his teeth. 

Harry gulps. “Probably not,” he shudders out, and tightens the grip. 

Niall's right, of course. By some god's gift, or his Irish grandparents' good luck or something, Niall Horan is always right about everything. Stretch block is fine, and gives Harry the chance to ogle Louis' back as he leans forward for every toe touch. Warm up goes fantastic; Harry catches every single step. He can't help but keep an eye on Aiden in his peripheral vision, but the guy hits everything and keeps his back straight while doing it. Unlikely from Grimshaw, though Harry has too low of an opinion on him to care any more than not at all. And finally, when Coach Cowell leads them onto the football field and Nick takes his place on his podium, even as Harry eyes the judges' clipboards with increasing anxiety, everything turns out fine. Amazing, insane, even. And as Harry stares wide eyed at the judging table while they run through last minute deliberations, grasping desperately at Niall's elbow, he knows they made it to the next round.

The entire Jefferson High marching band explodes in cheers as their score of one is announced. Harry jumps from his seat and smashes into Niall with a smothering hug, muffling both their yells. 

“Aye, we did it!” Niall cries. “Regionals, man!” 

“Regionals!” Harry repeats breathlessly, grinning stupidly. Letting Niall slip out of his hands, Harry turns to stumble down the bleachers and cheer with Louis. As his eyes land on him, though, nausea hits his stomach in a tsunami wave. There's Louis, buried deep in Aiden's arms, beaming like the sun itself possessed his body. Nerves shoot throughout his body, and he subverts back to Niall, whose uncanny telepathic-best-friend connection allows him to already detect the change in mood. 

“Come on, we're going to regionals,” Niall croons, slapping his back. Harry stuffs the image out of his mind, trying to crack a smile for his friend. 

“Yeah, we are,” he agrees, and then the smile evolves into a full on, ear to ear grin, and Harry gulps down the last of his anxiety. It's just Aiden, after all. Just Aiden, Niall's eyes say.

Taco Bell is a tradition for the Jefferson High marching band. Every Saturday competition includes an exclusive hour spent ravaging every corner of the Broadway and Warner Taco Bell and backing up the kitchen with a minimum of three different orders from each member of the band, including color guard. Everyone has a wonderful time watching the staff try to conjure fifty churros out of thin air.

Niall and Harry grab a booth in the corner after they place their orders, sliding in across from Eleanor and one of her friends from color guard. Aiden's been following Louis around like a puppy up until now, and Harry hasn't had a single chance to say hi or anything, so he just grumpily stares out the window as Niall and El chat excitedly about the competition. 

“Hey,” someone greets, and not a moment later a body slides into the two person booth next to Harry. Harry immediately attaches the voice to Louis, and he turns to that exact person grinning lopsidedly at him. 

“Hi,” Harry exhales. Louis looks fucking dumb in his band uniform, the black, green, and yellow jacket bunching up at his wrists, but pressed up against his side like this, all he can think about is how if he leaned forward only by an inch or so, Harry could kiss him smack dab on his lips. 

“Hey, Louis,” everyone else at the table choruses, but Louis doesn't take his eyes off of Harry just yet. It makes Harry want to squirm under the fluorescent lights. 

“Wanted to talk to when we made it through; I feel like we haven't in ages,” Louis says, still turned to Harry and practically breathing in his face.

“We talked yesterday,” Harry laughs, trying to school his expression into something that showed no sign of how Louis' knee knocking into his is driving him absolutely insane. 

“Yeah, but,” Louis shrugs. 

Harry lets him cheat out of an answer, raising his eyebrows. 

“Louis,” Niall interrupts, “you did aces at the comp.”

“Thanks, bro. You too,” Louis says. He's about to go on when yet another person sidles up to the booth, this time pushing to sit next to Eleanor's friend. It's Aiden, stupid hair plastered to his forehead and already annoying pretty much everyone at the table. Or at the very least, Harry.

“What up,” Aiden directs towards the whole table, although Harry follows his eyes, and they don't even once leave Louis' face. Louis purses his lips.

“Hi,” Louis curts, though his friendly and intent expression suggest otherwise. If Harry digs minutely more into Louis' shoulder, only Harry has to know. And Louis, if he notices.

“Order 15!” the counter of the Taco Bell calls.

“That's mine,” Harry announces, glad for a reprieve from having to watch Louis and Aiden interact. 

“I can get it,” Louis offers, already halfway out of the seat. 

“No, I can do it.”

“It's fine, mine's probably done in a second anyway,” he shakes his head, and it's not like Harry can do anything after that, since he's halfway across the restaurant before he even finishes the sentence. Harry lowers into the bench down again, and Niall jabs his side with his elbow and cocks a sly grin.

Aiden doesn't say anything, but Harry doesn't miss him glaring daggers into his skull, lips pressed in a thin line. 

Niall notices, too. “Hey, what's your problem?”

“Nothing,” Aiden bites out, just as Louis arrives back at the table, one tray with three dinners in hand. 

“They had Niall's, too,” he explains as he tosses Niall his seven bean and cheese burritos. 

“That's sick, thanks!” Niall exclaims, already frantically unwrapping one of his tiny gang of burritos. Louis passes Harry his taco, and then proceeds to dig into is own dinner. Aiden remains quiet on his side of the table, and Eleanor and her friend – Perrie? - are still in deep conversation about something or other. Probably make up, or whatever girls talked about. 

“Hey, Louis, are you free tomorrow?” Aiden asks, drawing Louis' attention from his delectable fast food dinner.

“Thought you had the test on Friday?” 

“Yeah, but,” Aiden says sheepishly.

“Sorry, I don't think so. I have to babysit the girls,” he apologizes amidst bites of burrito. Harry doesn't think he looks very sorry. A sick sort of happy curls in his stomach. _Ha,_ he thinks. Be lonely. “Maybe Monday?” Dammit.

Aiden's face lights up. “Yeah, that's cool!” 

Louis smiles back. Harry hopes it's just obligatory. 

“Order 20,” an employee calls, and Aiden reluctantly scoots out of the booth and makes his way towards the counter. 

 

 

On Sunday, Niall's found Zayn's Facebook profile. He texts him screenshots with adorable yet stalker-esque captions all afternoon whilst Harry tries halfheartedly to concentrate on studying algebra.

_ he's got a little sister??? does that mean he's loving and caring?? will he love and care for me??? _

_ FUCK EVEN CAUGHT OFF GUARD HE LOOKS HOT AS HELL. I'VE NEVER WANTED TO SUCK A DUDE'S DICK MORE THAN THIS _

_ harry i might be in love with a god from mt olympus. is he even real i'm not sure and it's making me emotional _

Harry cuts it off at a practical essay about the particular cut of Zayn's apparently ethereal jaw, sending thirty sick face emojis followed by a GO STUDY and various weapon emojis. It doesn't deter him at all, of course, and Harry continues to receive text upon text of creepy screenshots of Zayn's tagged pictures. So it surprises him when his phone buzzes with a message simply containing fifty smirking emojis.

_ What???????? _

Niall doesn't answer. This isn't normal. Harry chews on the tip of his pencil and stares blankly at the screen, waiting for an inevitable message to pop up. Niall can't hold off that long, can he? When the message finally comes through, though, the sender reads _Louis!!!!!._

_ i'm outside ur house. u up?? _

Harry squeaks, slapping a hand over his mouth. Outside? Right now? What the hell? Scrambling out of his swivel chair, he rushes to the window. The moon illuminates the suburban neighborhood street, large old trees sway in a gentle fall breeze, and sure enough, an unfamiliar car is parked on the driveway next to his mom's. 

“Oh my god,” Harry cries, falling onto his bed. Louis Tomlinson is outside of his house right now. Louis Tomlinson is expecting him to waltz out of the house at like ten at night. He should probably look presentable. Oh _god,_ he's out there and has a car and Harry looks like a trash can with legs and has algebra and holy shit? Did Niall know?

Harry's phone vibrates again from his desk. He struggles to fall off the bed and crawl to his desk, pawing at the top for the phone.

_??????????_

His fingers trembled as he tapped out an answer.

_I'm here. Do u want me to come out???_

_ yeah silly. that's why i'm here _

Five deep breaths. In, out, in, out. You can do it, you're friends, it's only Louis. Harry surveys his outfit and groans; he's still clad in last night's pyjamas. He contemplates changing quickly, but everything's in the laundry and that's the entire reason he's still wearing them in the first place, so there's no choice. He has to face the lights in gingham pyjama pants and a seven year old oversized superhero shirt from the bottom of his shirt drawer.

Grabbing a hoodie from a door hook, Harry races down the hall and pads down the stairs, careful not to disturb his mom. He's never done anything like this before, and if she knew, she would for sure question the entire thing and demand to know if Louis was a pedophile from the internet. It's not a long shot for him. 

Louis' tapping away on his phone when Harry shuffles to the car in a ball of nerves. The air bites at his skin; fall is fast approaching. When he pulls on the passenger door handle, Louis finally glances up and catches sight of him. A splitting grin stretches across his face, and he leans across to unlock the door so Harry can clamber in.

“Hey!” he says. Harry nods in greeting, taking in the sweatpants and thin v neck that Louis' wearing.

“Where are you taking me?” he inquires as the car pulls out of the driveway. He's mindful not to ask why he's here, sitting in the shitty seat of Louis' car, in the first place. 

“Don't know yet,” Louis admits. “Places.”

“You know, my mom probably thinks I've gone off with a pedophile, so don't make her think she's right.”

“Well,” Louis hums, “you never know.”

He drives the beat up old car out of the neighborhood and takes a left. That way, there's only a few more houses and an RV park, and past that, only empty fields and pastures. At this point, Harry's not quite sure if his mom is wrong. 

“I'm kidding, by the way,” Louis says as they past the last RV's in the park. The moon hangs low before them, and open fields rolling on for miles frame the bumpy road. “I really am just a dumb seventeen year old in high school.”

“Wasn't worried,” Harry replies as his phone buzzes against his thigh.

_i'm assuming ur in the car with Louis?_

_ yes stop texting me _

_ ask him if zayn is gay _

_ NO _

“Who are you texting?” Louis asks.

“Um, no one, just Niall.” A thinking icon pops up on the message screen, but Harry locks his phone and shoves it deep into the pyjama pants pocket. 

After a minute more of driving, Louis pulls over to the side, next to a small copse of oak trees. The engine flickers out into silence, and for a second, the only sound is their breaths intermingling with the distant murmur of the country crickets. Louis shatters it when he unlocks the car door and climbs out. Harry watches as he stretches his limbs before getting out himself, shutting the door quietly.

“Why are we here?” he asks as he peers at the stars twinkling above. He heard a quote once, some inspirational type of thing saying that everyone is crafted from atoms of stardust. Haryy glances at Louis and thinks that he must have been the most beautiful star out in the night sky. Even in holey sweatpants worn one too many times. 

“To relax,” Louis answers. He doesn't seem to want to go further. 

“That's it?”

He shrugs. “Just needed to get away for a bit.” Louis rounds the car and leans against the hood. Not knowing what to do with himself, Harry mimics his actions, scooting up to sit on the hood and leaning against his hands.

“You can say something, if you need to,” he says softly, unsure if it was the right thing to say at all. “To like, let it out.”

Louis sighs into the night air. “I like you, Harry.”

Butterflies swim in Harry's stomach. “Huh?” Is he-

“You're so nice about everything. You don't have a bad bone in your body.”

“Thank you,” Harry replies. A tragic false alarm. He wants to defend himself and counter with otherwise, but nothing comes up in his mind. Louis thinks he's nice.

Harry listens to the crickets chirping as Louis sighs again and rubs his face with his hands. A gentle breeze filters through the field, rustling the oak leaves and matting their hair against their foreheads. It's almost romantic, sitting together on the hood of a beat up car like a teen romance movie. This is where they would share their first kiss.

“My mom and her boyfriend were yelling at me about my grades,” Louis confides. “And I said something shitty back, and now I just don't know what to do.”

Harry just nods. “Everyone says shitty things once in a while.”

“Yeah, I know, but not like that. It was like, I don't even wanna repeat it. I was just so angry, and in the moment, I just spewed whatever came to my mind, and now mom's threatening me with juvenile shit or something. It's insane, but I don't know what to do.” It's like a dam was broken, and words flood from Louis' mind and mouth. “I don't know what to do about anything.”

Harry lets him speak. He makes sure to pay attention to his running words, though he's not sure what to say back. If it were up to him, he would read him off paragraphs and essays and short novels of how fucking great of a person he is, even if it's not relevant to the current conversation. He wants to say _I know what to do about you._ He wants to kiss him. Instead, “I'm sorry.”

“Junior year is just so shit, yeah?” Louis barrels on, ignoring the inane apology. “And mom keeps badgering me about starting picking colleges and shit. I don't even know if I'm gonna be able to get into any colleges with the grades I get. Or what to even do when I get there.”

“You still have a year and a half,” Harry reassures. He lays back on the hood and watches the stars shimmer across the night sky. Louis settles back with him. 

“I know.” He's silent for a moment. Harry matches their breathing. “Do you know what you want to do?”

“Music. Definitely music. Maybe engineering? Or like a band director.” Harry won't lie and say he hasn't researched for hours about both options.

“See?” Louis groans. “Even you know what you want to do, and you're a sophomore. That's sick, by the way. I think you'd be good at it.”

“Thanks. Some people turn thirty and still don't know what they want to do. You're not alone, you know? A lot of people feel lost about it.”

“Yeah. I feel like I should do something music. I mean, that's what I'm doing in high school.”

Harry shakes his head. “You shouldn't feel tied to anything like that. Just... listen to your heart.”

“Stop being so wise,” Louis scoffs. For a split second Harry wonders when he turned into Niall, and Louis turned into him.

“I thought you said you wanted to be a drum major?”

“I do, I really do. But that's the only goal I have in life. The only thing I have planned out.”

“It can't be the only thing.”

“Mhm. My life would say otherwise.”

“Even so,” Harry continues. He doesn't think he's ever talked this long with Louis. “It's still a while. You don't have to do college right away, or like community college, or something. But it's still a while away. Like, you still have time to think.”

“I don't think my mom understands that.”

“She'll come around. Moms always do.” A pause ripples through the night. Louis' fingers are restless where they rest against the cool metal of the car hood, and Harry itches to lace them with his, to see what it would feel and look like. “Besides, I think you'll do neat in whatever you do.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, uh, I think you're really cool. And great, and stuff. You're good at whatever you do.”

Harry chances a look at Louis' face, and finds it grinning at the sky. They lock eyes for a second before he looks away for a second, and Harry feels sparks ignite in his chest. 

“That means a lot, coming from you.”

It doesn't make any sense to Harry, but he doesn't want to press on. Does Louis think that highly of him? Does he value his opinion of him, the second person in the entire school to think so? It makes him too nervous just thinking of the implications. He doesn't even remember how they got this far.

The pair lay in a beautiful quiet for a little while, just watching the midnight clouds lumber across the night sky. A bit of fluff partially covers the moon, and the stars twinkle in and out of existence. The soft swish of the leaves accompany their slow breathing patterns, the only ones within the field along with the stray cow slumbering across the way. Harry's almost convinced Louis' fallen asleep on the car before he stirs again, moving to lean on his elbows.

“We should get back,” Louis sighs. Harry remembers the fact that he has to wake up at five thirty tomorrow and pouts. Reluctantly, he slides off the hood and makes for the passenger seat. For the first time in what seems like a long time, but was probably like half an hour, the engine roars to life, disrupting the peaceful noise of the pastures. 

Harry watches Louis, admiring the way the moonlight sharpens his already cutting features. If he could bottle this up, he would.

Louis catches his eye. He seems on the brink of saying something important, yet seems content to just hold the gaze. As the seconds tick by, it becomes more intense, and whatever Louis is going to say, Harry wants to hear it now so it won't be so blatant that he's pondering just what it would feel like to run his fingers through his hair. 

Louis brings in a deep breath, opening his mouth just slightly, as if the sentence is fighting to fling itself off the tip of his tongue. His eyes flicker down to Harry's mouth for the bat of an eye, so quick that if he had blinked he would have missed it. Harry's stomach bursts with nerves. Is he going to kiss him, oh my god, did he just imagine that?

Another breath, more hesitation. One, two, three, four-

“You're a good friend, Styles,” Louis finally lets out. He reaches over and digs his fingers into his hair, ruffling the strands like feathers. It's so good, it feels so good, and Harry wants severely for Louis to just grip the hair and pull him forward into a kiss – god, he wants so badly to kiss Louis. He didn't conjure up that eye flicker, did he? 

_You're a good friend._ The words replay themselves in Harry's mind. Friend. Nothing more. He bites his lip and tries to keep them at the forefront of his brain. 

“Yeah, you too,” Harry replies. The car backs out of the grass. 

 

 

Life goes on. Louis doesn't mention that night on Monday, or during afternoon rehearsals, or at all. Not that it's that important. Harry doesn't stop thinking about wanting to kiss Louis, and Louis doesn't seem to want to stop being around Harry, although he never heaves out any more secret wants or tiny insecurities. He doesn't take him on any more late night journeys. They're just friends.

Regionals goes without any complications, though the only times Harry sees Louis is bobbing amongst the crowd of the marching band. More often than not, he's with Aiden, though technically Aiden should be with the drum line and not a trumpet player. At Taco Bell, Aiden steals them both a table in the back, and Harry ends up picking at his taco lettuce while Niall chats amiably with Eleanor and some kid from pit. 

“So Louis,” Eleanor pipes at one point, and for the first time, Harry's head pops up to listen in. “Are him and Aiden a thing?”

Niall glances warily towards his friend. “Not that I know of,” he answers, and that seems to satisfy El, although her sneaky peeking seems to give off otherwise. 

“They're cute,” she comments.

“So did you finish the weekend's algebra homework already?” Niall asks, steering Eleanor away from the couple of the year. Sometimes, Harry is so thankful for his best friend that he could just smack a slobbery one right on his forehead. As it is, he just sinks into his side and sighs. 

During chemistry, Louis snags the seat next to Harry for homework time on the day that Jerry-Gerry is sick. 

“You owe me answers,” is his greeting.

“Hello to you too,” Harry replies, pressing his lips into a line and pitching an eyebrow.

“Well? I beat you at laps, and you owe me a chemistry worksheet,” he pushes, leaning forward expectantly.

“I haven't even done it yet.”

“All the better. I can just copy as you go along,” he shrugs. Harry will never win.

“Fine, but only because you're a shit,” he relents, shifting the homework sheet so Louis can see the first answer he wrote down. “You have to learn it at some point, you know.” 

Louis sighs dramatically. “I know, but why do that when I have you?”

“I can't help you pass tests,” he points out. Louis bites his lip and stares blankly at the paper. Harry waits to work out another question before turning back to him. “Want me to work some out with you?”

At the suggestion, Louis hums, tapping his chin in mock thought. “I dunno,” he says. “I don't think it would entirely benefit-”

“It's really simple, if you think about it. It's just converting, like you would inches to feet or something,” he reasons. 

“Well, when you put it that way...”

“Perfect. Okay, we gotta start with the mole ratio...” Together, Harry walks Louis through a few problems, and by the end of the hour, he watches intently as Louis converts moles to numbers to mass and back again, like a right pro. He feels pride bubble up as Louis pens in the correct answer to the last question. 

“This it?” he asks, looking at Harry for approval. When he nods, Louis throws his hands in the air. “Yess,” he croons. “I understaaaand.”

As pride bubbles up in his chest cavity, Harry covers his mouth with his hand in attempt to stop the ridiculous smile that threatens its way onto his lips. Louis is so incredible at whatever he sets his mind to, he thinks. Louis is so fucking incredible.

“Thanks a bunch, Harold. You're a great friend.”

_Friend._ There it is again. Like Louis could not say that more than he has already to drive the point home. 

“No problem,” Harry shrugs, and swallows his bitterness.

Marching band doesn't help, by any means. Well, it helps in the way that it forces Louis and Harry to spend almost every waking moment outside of school together, what with football games and competitions taking up every single consumable second of life. It also obliges Louis to spend all the same time with Aiden, which doesn't make Harry's funk any better. It's difficult, because as much as he loves being friends with Louis, he can't help but feel that there's something missing. 

The Thursday before the area competition, Harry's jumping from foot to foot on the crisp wet grass of the football field, trying to ignore the itchiness of his marching uniform. His shoulders hurt from the weight of the tenor drum, his pants are particularly tight around the balls area, and from his place at the side of the field, he can't even see all the cute football players in their tight pants. It's completely unfair. 

Football games are standard. It's a natural part of marching band, and the only side most spectators are privy to. Play in the stands, go down and perform for half time, and then go back to the stands. Wars against the visiting team. All that jazz. The show goes well, of course, rehearsed and top notch for competition. And since no one in the audience cares anyway, the band sweeps through it like a breeze. 

Back in the stands, Harry revels in the fight songs. The entire Jefferson High bleacher jumps on the benches and pump their fists in the air to the beat of the song, screaming the lyrics. If there's one thing this school does well, it's definitely the spirit. As the song ends, the opposing high school is already starting their own fight song, although it's not nearly as exciting with only half the away stand filled. That's always the best parts of home games; no matter what, the home team will always scream the most spirit. 

Harry shifts his eyes from the away game marching band to Nick, at attention at the bottom of their bleachers, just in time to catch him raising his arms for another number. The band takes a simultaneous breath, the minute lift of their instruments and shoulders only visible to other members, and they're off again. Harry bangs at his drum, deftly hitting the rhythms in line with the delicate high notes of the woodwinds and blaring racket of the brass. A grin creeps onto his face as they rock on, several members swaying to the beat and bobbing their heads to the school spirit. The entire bleacher rumbles with the movement of excited high schoolers. 

Harry catches sight of a flying head of caramel hair a few rows in front of him. Louis' there, practically hopping from side to side as he blares his horn. He's positively glowing, completely in his in element on the valves of his trumpet. Harry loves when he's like this, thinks he's at his most beautiful with that twinkle in his eye and enjoying what he does most. The beat pulses through the thick air, hair and instruments and drumsticks flying everywhere, and through it all, Louis shines like the fucking stardust he is. 

It hits him like a freight train. It hits him like the moon crashed into the earth billions of years ago, as he stares at the birth of every interstellar explosion that ever occurred. Harry is so fucked. This crush, or whatever, ballooned somewhere along the way, and Niall gave him two options: to get or get over. He didn't mention that there would be a third, a try to get and in the process dig yourself a cave by deepening his unrequited feelings for the guy tenfold. Louis is this incredible and gorgeous and loud and ethereal being, and Harry is so, so fucked. 

 

 

“I'm so fucked.”

It's six in the morning, the sun is hauling itself over the horizon a week later, and Harry is still so fucked. They're the only ones sitting in the hallway outside of the band room, asses freezing on the cold morning linoleum. 

“You're not,” Niall reassures between sips of his coffee thermos. 

“I am,” Harry continues. “I like him so much. Like, I don't even know how it's possible?”

“Well, he's a nice guy.”

Harry rests his head on Niall's shoulder. “State is tomorrow,” he sighs, playing with a loose thread on the hem of his friend's sweater. 

“Made it this year, didn't we?” Harry can almost feel the smile developing on Niall's face. “I'm so pumped, man.”

“Same here,” Harry agrees. He hasn't been able to think about it much in the past week, what with being occupied by Louis Tomlinson followed by school work, naturally. No one else has let him forget about it, though. Even his teachers have come up to him throughout the school day to congratulate him and the marching band on making this far. It's quite a spectacle.

“You know,” Niall says softly after squinting at the fluorescent lights a bit too long. “We're gonna be so wicked. I can already tell.”

“I hope so. Or else all of Coach Cowell's absurd yelling will be for nothing.”

“Eh, I mean, for the most part it was cool with me. The laps thing, though-”

Harry groans. _Louis,_ again. “I've got to get over him.”

Niall jerks, forcing Harry to sit up. “But you're so close! You can't just give up now.”

“Yeah, but,” he shrugs, “I don't even know if he likes me back. And then Aiden, and how he keeps calling me a friend, which I am, but like, it's as if he's establishing boundaries. Do I act like I'm going too far?”

“Okay, first of all, I can tell you right now that he likes you-”

“You've never even had a girlfriend-”

“Or boyfriend. Keep an open mind, pal, there are people like Zayn Malik on this planet. Second of all, Aiden is a piece of shit and anyone, even Louis, can tell that. Trust me, just mention his shittiness in one conversation and he'll be dropped like a piece of rancid fish.” 

“He's just shitty to me, Niall, no one else-”

“ _Thirdly,_ Harry Styles, you act like Harry Styles. You're fucking incredible, and even though you're the most socially awkward person I've ever had the pleasure to be friends with, there's no way you can go too far. That's ridiculous. I can't tell you why he reiterates the friends thing so much, but that's such bullshit. Stop that act, it's no fault of yours.”

Harry makes a face. Niall's probably right, like the beautiful bastard he is, but that doesn't rid him of the horrible sinking feeling in his stomach. It's the anxiety, he thinks. Like an alligator, just underneath the surface and always poised and ready to spring. He's not sure, though. 

“Anyway, the deadline is soon, so-”

“Harry Styles!” Niall cries, banging the thermos onto the ground and grabbing Harry by the jaw. “That deadline was bullshit!”

“But-”

Niall shakes his head. “I just want you to be happy, Harry. I only said that because I thought it would push you to actually go after something that makes you happy. And you did, and I'm fucking proud of you. Even if it doesn't work out, as your best friend since the seventh grade, I wholeheartedly support whatever happens, deadline or not.”

Harry pauses, searching Niall's eyes for something that defied his words, yet all he can come up with was genuine, mushy-gushy love and support. 

“Really?” he asks. 

Niall rolls his eyes, letting go of Harry's cheeks and letting his hands rest on his shoulders instead. “Yes, oh my god, you dick. Now let's stop this conversation before you start crying over a high school crush.”

“I love you, man. Have I ever said that before?”

Niall sighs, but nods and lets a massive smile out. “Lots of times, bro. Love you too.”

“Give me a hug,” Harry demands before promptly falling forward into Niall's arms. “You Irish bastard.”

“I'm American,” Niall protests, the words muffled by the fabric of Harry's hoodie. “Football and beer and all that.” 

Harry doesn't answer, just breathes in Niall's toxic Axe cologne and happily stays cuddled up with him until Coach Cowell unlocks the band room door twenty minutes later. 

 

 

Harry's never been this nervous before. He really hasn't, and he knows that for a fact because he dug through all of his embarrassing memories on the bus ride to the local university stadium and nothing has ever turned his entire body into a fizzing tangle of nerves. That probably wasn't his brightest idea, but Niall is right beside him in the sticky faux leather seat to calm him down, so he's still okay. For now.

“Deep breaths,” Niall orders, one hand holding his garment bag and the other on Harry's shoulder. In, one two, out, one two. “We're not even at the university yet.”

“We're playing at a _university,_ ” Harry squeaks, slapping his hands against his face. 

“Shit,” Niall hisses. “Listen, we've got the show on lock, bro. Nothing's going to go wrong. Remember that.”

Harry attempts to nod, closing his eyes and practicing more deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. The exercises do little to assuage his nerves, but it still helps to concentrate on something other than performing at the state level, in a university stadium. 

It doesn't help that Louis' got his feet propped up on Aiden's lap in the back row, having the time of his life. Despite everything, it's like the bus is one place where Harry is still only a corporeal form of a trash can that hasn't been taken out in two weeks. Likely, Harry tries to reason, it's only because Aiden is a man-stealing bitch. That's what Eleanor called some nasty cheerleader a while back.

Niall succeeds in calming Harry down enough to complete stretch block, warm ups, and lining up without a hitch. 

They're within the sides of the stadium, all dressed up and in order. If Harry peers around two bass drums, he can see the grass of the stadium. From here, it seems to stretch miles long; Harry gulps.

Okay. He can do this. He can totally do this. He's got his dot book memorized more than any other member of drum line, _especially_ Aiden, he knows that for a fact. That's comforting. Harry's good at this. Great, even, Louis would say he's fantastic.

The self pep talk doesn't suffice. In the sliver of sun and grass and seats, panic begins to bubble. He squeezes his eyes shut, painting his knuckles white from gripping his drumsticks so tightly. 

Harry cannot do this. He can't. He can't perform in front of state judges, glasses low on thin noses and a dangerous jet black pen poised in their hand. What if he messes up? God, there was that one time where he dropped a drum stick during the middle of the show, and what if it happens again? Anxiety forces its way up into his chest and closes in on his throat. The field could probably actually be a pit of writhing snakes and it would be the same.

“Niall,” Harry whispers, reaching to poke his back with a trembling drumstick. “Niall, I can't do this.” 

Niall swivels around immediately. His shako chin strap looks funky, and usually it makes Harry laugh, but today is not that day.

“Yes you can,” he reassures, voice a bit frantic. Niall's expression says it all: it is _so_ not the time to be having a melt down. 

“Niall, I really can't.” Harry's voice wobbles, and he can sense hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Cowell motions that it's about five minutes until the judges are done with the current group and they go on. _Oh my fucking god_ , Harry thinks. _Fuck, fuck, fucking Christ._

“Harry, shit, don't panic,” Niall pleads. “You won't mess up, I promise, come on.”

I will, his mind can't help but interjecting. Sometimes, he would like to twist a blunt knife it's his mind's arteries. 

In, one two, out, one two. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He repeats the process until two minutes before show time, like he's practiced a billion times before. There was the first day of kindergarten, the first time his mom taught him the exercise as he was hyperventilating outside of the classroom. In the seventh grade, Harry cried right before his first ever band performance. That was the first time Niall was with him, and he didn't know fuck all about what to do so Harry went on with shaking lips and red eyes, and his mom texted him seconds after the last song to ask if he was okay.

One and a half minutes to go. He can feel the band inching forward, just itching to pile onto the field and give the best they've got. Harry's not ready. How did that one part of the third movement go? Oh my god, he doesn't know, and-

“Are you okay?” it's a new voice, and Harry peeks one eye open to find Louis in front of him, clutching his trumpet hesitantly.

“Not really,” Harry breathes out. “Sorry.”

“Hey,” Louis says, and it's as if he's switched into an entirely different mode when he rests his hand on Harry's bicep. “Hey, it's alright.” To which Harry responds with a panicky head shake, because he cannot remember how that part goes, and if he forgets, they're not winning - “It's alright. Everything's okay. Are you nervous about the show?” A nod. “Forget about that. It doesn't matter if you don't do well, or no one does well. Just as long as you try, I'm proud of you. It's not about winning-” au contraire, winning is Coach Cowell's entire goal in life “- it's about doing what makes you happy. Hey, if you're happy with your performance, nothing else matters. We made it this far, and that's what counts. Harry-” Harry forces his eyes open again, and their gazes lock immediately. “You're the best drummer I've ever met. If you fuck up, you're still gonna be the best drummer I've ever met, because I don't want anyone else in that spot. You're the best because you do it to make you happy. Just be happy to play, and you'll do fine.” Louis pressed his thumb into the jacket material, and it's almost like he knows that it gives Harry something to focus on instead of their impending doom.

It takes fifteen seconds to mull over Louis' words as he does deep breaths. Just do what makes you happy, Harry. Forget about doing well. You're the best drummer I know.

Louis keeps his thumb deep in the fabric of the marching band jacket. One minute to show. The band has made it this far, and that's what counts. Harry repeats Louis' words over and over, and amazingly, thirty seconds to show, the panic quells. The trembling doesn't subside, and Harry suspects that when he steps out onto the wet grass everything will only come back full force, but for a few seconds, he knows they're going to be okay.

Harry opens his eyes one last time, connecting immediately with Louis'. He's biting his lip, expression fierce with pride and courage, yet still with a hint of hesitation for... something. Harry decides not to dwell on it, instead still focusing on Louis' pep talk.

“I – you'll do swell,” Louis finishes the speech confidently. “We're gonna rock.”

Louis lets his hand slide off Harry's arm with fifteen seconds to go, and he backs away for two steps before throwing up a thumbs up and sprinting back to his place in line.

Coach Cowell towers at the front of the group, a face of determination set in place. They're gonna rock, either way, Harry reminds himself. The front of the band lurches forward, marching out into the stadium. I can do this, Harry thinks, and then the sun is blinding his vision and all he can do is march like he was born to do it.

 

 

The bleachers are tense. Everyone is dead silent as the judges deliberate, Harry's hand is captured in Niall's in an absolute death grip, and his heart is in his throat as they wait. Louis' only two rows in front of him, curled up in himself next to Aiden, though he's glanced back quite a few times as they watched another band play, so at least that's something. Liam is on Harry's other side, chewing his nails to the nub, and Coach Cowell is in a right state by himself, hands continuously tearing at his already sparse head of hair. 

“When are they going to post the results?” Niall whispers into Harry's ear. Harry just shrugs in response, unable to muster up anything else in his nervous state. It's less than before, but there's absolutely nothing like waiting for what is, in that moment, a decision that may change your entire future.

“Wait, they're gonna announce it,” Niall hisses. The whole band and color guard lean forward in their seats, straining their eyes and ears to catch the scores.

Runner up: Monroe County High School. A collective sigh of relief waves over the band. 

Champion: Jefferson High School.

Shrieking erupts from the stands. In one instant, the entire Jefferson High marching band is on their feet and in the air, all yelling and cheering and screaming and definitely bawling.

“We fucking did it!” Niall whoops, jumping on the bleachers and causing them to whine under the weight. 

“Oh my god,” Harry cries, only because he's currently rendered unable to communicate through anything else. “Oh my fucking god.”

Niall crashes into him, stumbling a bit as he buries his face into Harry's shoulder and wraps his octopus arms around him. 

“Holy fucking shit!” Pulling out of the hug and grabbing his shoulders, Niall shakes Harry, grinning like an absolute maniac. Harry will gladly admit to looking like twice the maniac in that moment.

Liam tugs at his arm from his side, and Harry yells with him for a moment before turning around attempting to seek a certain head of feathery brown hair in the celebrating crowd.

“Louis!” he calls out, and almost instantly, a set of blue eyes are on him. He's pushing Aiden out of their hug the moment he hears Harry say his name, scrabbling up the bleachers. 

“Harry, we won!” Louis hollers a millisecond before he barrels into him, engulfing Harry in the best hug he's received to date. “You won!”

“We all did!” Harry laughs, the words almost lost in Louis' shoulder. “We've just won state, I can't believe it.”

“I'm so happy, I could kiss you right now,” Louis breathes. Harry can feel his ear-splitting grin pressed into him, his heart's about to burst from winning, and – what did Louis say? 

“Um-” Harry freezes. Louis pulls back, and there's a split second between staring quizzically and fish gaping where Louis realizes what he just said. 

“Wait-”

“Did you-”

“Harry, I'm so sorry,” Louis rushes, and suddenly they're not touching at all, both their fists firmly a their sides. “I didn't-”

Harry's head whirls with all the thoughts bombarding him. They just won state, and Louis just said he wanted to kiss him, but did he mean it, or was it just like an in the moment thing? More importantly, Harry thinks he just took it back, which is actually fucking horrible and he doesn't want to even touch that right now, because they just won state, and - 

“Harry-” 

“Louis.” Harry's mouth is open, but he's not the one that said it. Aiden's sidled up to a distressed Louis, of course he has, and that smug expression the last straw.

“I'm just gonna go, uh, talk to Niall,” he croaks out. “You two should like, celebrate.” Before the sentence is out, he's stumbled his way up one and a half steps and Niall's caught him by the wrists.

“Harry, we have to – what's wrong?”

He shakes his head. This isn't going to ruin the moment. “Nothing, um, I'll tell you later.”

Luckily, Niall's too hyped up on the win to give it any thought. He just pulls Harry up and launches into another round of something akin to yelling in Harry's face.

 

 

Harry ignores five texts from Louis that weekend. Saturday night, he falls into bed with three unread texts, and wakes up on Sunday with two more, including a dejected _sorry for bothering ): hope u sleep well._ He didn't.

Come Monday morning, Harry's a mess. Half of him is one hundred percent certain Louis only said it to pull his leg, and the other half is wondering if he missed out on the chance of a lifetime. Kissing Louis sounds like a lottery prize, or what's behind the third door, or a ship passing a deserted island.

Mondays after a competition are always spent reviewing the judge's notes and watching the performance, so it's easy to hide in Niall's side the hour, only coming up to add a fist pump to the cheers at the end of Coach Cowell's last congratulatory speech. 

As the bell rings for first hour, Harry's still on the dingy carpet floor, pressing random buttons on his phone to pass the time. Niall hauls Harry's backpack onto his free shoulder and holds out a hand to pull his friend up. Harry told him all of it over the phone on Sunday, and he thinks he's bonkers for backing out of it, but begrudgingly supports him all the same. Someday, when Harry accepts his inevitable Academy Award, Niall will be the first person he'll thank.

“You know, I still can't believe-”

“Harry,” someone cuts Niall off. At this point, Harry knows who it is before he even turns around to face the music. 

“Hi,” is all he says, because he hasn't a single clue what else to say. What are you supposed to say to someone you've ignored all weekend? 

“I just want to talk,” Louis pleads. His hair is mussed and his skin is pale, like he slept fitfully. 

Harry glances at Niall. Niall shrugs, offering a small smile of encouragement as he lets go of his hand and gently pushes him forward. Harry changes his mind; his mother is up first on the list of who to thank. 

“Um.” Louis jerks a thumb towards the locker room, and Harry just numbly follows him inside. He briefly thinks about how his first hour teacher is going to wonder where he is. 

Louis slides down the wall of lockers until he's lounging on the gross tile floor next to his open bottom row locker, beckoning Harry to do the same. When he does, the space between them is almost electric. 

“So,” he begins. “Snack?”

Harry scrunches his nose. “No thank you.”

“Just wondering,” Louis shrugs. They sit in quiet, watching the rest of the woodwinds and brass filter out of the locker room and head off to their classes. It's not long before it's empty, and the silence is so deafening that one of them has to give in and fill it.

“I have to-”

“I'm sorry-”

“You go ahead,” Louis urges. His fingers twitch in his lap.

“No, it's okay, you go,” Harry counters. It's not like he has much to say, anyway. 

“A-alright,” he stutters. “I don't really know how to word this. So I'm just gonna like, go for it.” 

Harry pitches an eyebrow and nerves begin to settle in the pits of his chest. 

“I've wanted to kiss you ever since you spilled my water bottle over that fucking Jack Wills shirt.”

Harry blanches. “Oh.”

“If that makes things weird, I'm sorry. I just wanted to like, get it out there. That I have this, um, massive fucking crush on you.”

“You do?” 

Louis bites his lip, hesitantly searching Harry's face for any sign of life. Harry is currently out of order, due to the fact that he thinks he just heard Louis Tomlinson confess that he has a crush on him. On _Harry._

“I do.” This time he says it confidently. “I do, and I'd really like it if you answered me now-”

“What about Aiden?” Harry blurts. A shadow of confusion crosses Louis' face.

“Aiden? What about him? He's just the son of my mom's best friend. He's not that great. Why, do you-”

“Oh my god.” Harry feels like crying. It's starting to process now, and he's pretty sure there's actual tears forcing their way up his throat. A mad grin overtakes his blank expression.

“Is that like a, a mutual confirmation?”

“Definitely, yeah, Christ.”

“So,” Louis pushes again. “Can I kiss you now?”

Harry can't nod fast enough. _Yes,_ fuck, Louis has permission to kiss him all day and night if he wants to. 

Louis shuffles around awkwardly, trying to obtain a proper position where he can kiss Harry, who's sat frozen against the lockers. 

“Yeah?” Louis asks, like permission is the last thing he needs. Harry doesn't want to nod again, so he reaches up and pulls Louis closer by the collar of his band shirt, and finally, their lips meet.

It's awkward. They clink teeth at first and neither one is experienced in the fine art of smacking faces. It's also the best kiss Harry will ever receive.

Louis pulls away first, only to come right back and plant a fat one right on Harry's cheek. His hand digs into his curls like a lifeline, and Harry wouldn't want it any other way. 

“I have to say. I've wanted to do that for like, two years.”

Louis' eyes bulge.”For real? That's amazing. Can we do it again, then?”

Harry can almost bawl from nodding because he'd like to do it nonstop for the next three days, please. He still can't quite believe Louis is kissing him in the first place. 

Beaming, Louis closes the distance again, only this time it's so much better. The angle is right, and Harry sighs blissfully into it.

“Skip first hour with me?” Louis asks. Like that's even a question. 

“Duh,” Harry answers. Skip life seems like a better option.

They're interrupted by a buzz coming from Harry's thigh.

_i hope u make me the best man at ur wedding <33_

“Just Niall,” Harry says, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “Which reminds me. Is Zayn gay?”

“Zayn is a free spirit,” Louis says into Harry's chin. “Also, I gave him to the end of the school year to woo Niall.”

“Perfect,” Harry laughs. The locker room stinks of dirty undergarments, Harry's parents are going to bombard him about his mysterious absence, and Louis' hands are carding through his curls. It's perfect. 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> this note edit is so, so entirely late, but thank you so incredibly much for reading. it means SO much to me. if you wanna stop by and chat here is my [tumblr](http://charrysoda.tumblr.com), hope you have the best day <3


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